The Other Side of Hurt

CHAPTER 1

Central Idaho

The Border Collie barked and Wes woke instantly. She was scratching at the bedroom door. He rolled out of bed and pulled on his jeans before his eyes could fully focus. After finding his rifle, his boots and the battery lantern, he threw on a flannel shirt and went out the door with the dog leading the way.

Outside, the desperate baaa of sheep was deafening. The collie tore across the yard and headed straight for the corral. Wes’s breath clouded in the cold air, and he shivered as he hurried after her, his unbuttoned shirt flapping as he ran. He caught up with her behind the barn and saw the flock pushing and shoving against the fence.

A deep growl broke from the dog’s chest, and Wes knew something was close, yet the collie held her ground. He touched her lightly in the dark and felt her hair stiff as the grass beneath their feet. Stay, he whispered, and then clicked on the lantern. The mountain lion froze in the swath of light.

The glow of the sage green eyes was mesmerizing and intent, even curious, the cup of its ears tipped slightly back. It began to pace just outside the fence. Its shoulders powerful, its body lithe, each rear paw finding the placement of the forepaw that preceded it.

Wes raised his rifle and the cougar paused, but its gaze remained steady. Then Wes lowered the gun and neither of them moved. The Border Collie growled and lunged forward, and the mountain lion disappeared into the darkness.

At the breakfast table the next morning, Wes said, You must think me a bit daft. He looked over at his brother. The cat was beautiful, and I couldn’t shoot it.

You will once it starts killing those woolies of yours.

Wes took a sip of his coffee but couldn’t stop from adding, The cougar was amazing. Big. Powerful. And quite courageous. I had it beat and it knew it. Yet it just stood there and stared at me.

Curt Cogan shook his head. You’re being bloody philosophical. It was frozen in your light, that’s all.

I know this all sounds like rubbish, but I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling I had. So let’s let it go at that. He stood and drained his cup. I’m off. I’ve got to get some hay out to the flock.

Curt looked up. What about the cougar? We could get a few blokes together and hunt it down. Patterson has a pack of hounds. That should do the job.

Let’s go with the noise tapes and beanbag guns. No sense killing a beautiful animal like that when we can simply run it off into the hills.

Curt tapped his fingers on the table a moment then said, You’ve never seen what a cougar can do. Once they get a taste of livestock, they keep coming, one at a time. Those woolies of yours are totally defenseless. He looked under the table where the Border Collie lay near Wes’s feet. I’m afraid that little herd dog of yours isn’t up to the job.

Actually, I’ve been seriously thinking about getting a livestock guardian dog. I saw an article in a sheepherder’s magazine that talked about the advantages. The bloke who wrote the piece breeds and sells them.

I doubt that one dog can take down a cougar.

They don’t take them down. They run them off. That way your stock is protected without having to kill the predator. But here’s the best part. You buy a pup, and a bloke comes out with a couple of adult dogs and shows you how it’s done. You can hire him for a couple weeks or a few months. Wes walked toward the door. I want the chance, anyway, to send the cougar off alive.

Right. But you better get on with it, then. The cat needs to be long gone before we have calves and lambs on the ground. One way or another . . . .

It’s a deal, mate. Wes grabbed the felt hat off the peg near the door. He shoved the hat down on his head and left with his dog in tow.

Curt watched out the window as Wes crossed the yard to his truck. He knew that once his brother had an idea in his head, that was it.

There were only three years between them. But even as young boys they had been different. He had always been slow and steady and maybe just a little stiff in his ways, while Wes was a thunderbolt, loved excitement and hated monotony and dullness in his life. Still, Wes was always the bloke you turned to when the going got rough.

The pickup bounced its way down the rutted dirt road, and Curt watched as it slowly disappeared over the hill where Wes’s sheep were grazing. Back home, Wes had been seeing a woman named Gena. They broke up, and later she was killed in a car crash.

Curt admitted to being more than a little surprised when Wes asked to buy some of his land and move to Idaho. Wes loved their homeland. His attachment to Australia was far greater than Curt’s had ever been. Yet, Wes had bought fifty sheep and joined him in the States. A bit backward, Curt thought, since the sheep industry was weakened in the U.S. but exploding in Australia and New Zealand.

At first, Curt thought it was the tragedy with Gena that drove Wes to America. But Wes had never hinted that Gena had meant more to him than any other woman. Though he was always affectionate, he liked his freedom. So what was it then that sent Wes rushing from Australia to live on a ranch in Idaho? Maybe he would never know. But one thing was certain. A storm continued to rage across his brother’s life.

Wes drove another two miles and stopped the truck. Though it was early April and only 40 degrees, he rolled down the window and gazed out at the one thing that always calmed him.

The Range stretched for miles before him, a land free and limitless, rich in big sky and the unpredictable. Beyond it rose the foothills of the mountains. Here the trees grew thick and wild and yet were miniaturized by the mountain peaks stretching up behind them.

He fished a cigarette out of his pocket and ran the length of it under his nose and took a deep breath. It was his last one, and he wondered how in hell he was ever going to give up the addiction. He held it between his teeth now, flipped open his lighter and lit up. He glanced over his shoulder. The Border Collie sat next to him like a tightly-coiled spring waiting for the moment his hand would touch the door handle.

Bonnie Doone, Wes called. Ya ready?

The dog barely breathed.

He reached over, his fingers slowly opening the door, and the black-and-white herd dog shot from the truck like a scud missile. Barking wildly, she jumped the fence and waited for him on the other side. Wes got out and went through the gate. The dog began running circles around him, her barking incessant. Mate! he shouted, and the dog sat.

He scanned the landscape for any signs of his sheep, and then, at the top of a hill, he spotted his flock. They looked a bit yellow against the snowy background, their sturdy hooves digging for last year’s grass.

Wes shifted his eyes to the dog. Gather ‘em, Doone!

The Border Collie burst into a run, rocks and snow flying behind her as she sped off.

Easy, easy! Wes shouted, but Doone was already circling the flock and coming in from the far side of the hill. She weaved in and out now, moving thirty here, twenty there, grouping them.

Easy! Wes called again as the sheep came bounding over the rise. And they kept coming, all fifty of them, with Doone behind and racing them straight toward him.

Away to me! No! Come by! Shit! Wes bailed over the fence at the last possible minute while the sheep scattered and ran down the fence line.

Wes closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Doone was young and still learning. Hell, so was he. He’d be damned if he could remember the right commands, especially when the collie was moving like a small tornado. He had listened to his brother’s advice, but Curt was only slightly helpful. He was a cattleman, after all, and knew little about woolies.

It was old Salvatore, the Mexican sheepherder, who had told him, You think too much about a thing, Wes. Doone is a good dog. Get her out and do it. Just do it.

Wes stood up, stretched his arms over his head and flexed his fingers. Good job, Bonnie Doone.

The dog merely twitched her tail without taking her gaze from the sheep.

Lift! Wes called, which he hoped meant move the stock away from the fence. He watched now as Doone circled the flock, got in front of them and drove them back.

With a sigh of relief, he began looking over his ewes. It didn’t take long to see that most of them were with lamb. One in particular seemed tense, her udder full and leaking. He needed to move her into a pen and soon.

As he walked back to his pickup, he glanced up toward the mountains. The jagged mass cut into the skies and was appropriately called Sawtooth. From North to South they dominated the view, their harshness seemingly impenetrable.

Reaching the truck now, he began forking out hay. As the sheep came in to graze, he took count of his flock. Salvatore had told him this way a shepherd knew at once if every sheep was up on its feet, feeding contentedly and free from harm. Wes was always tense until all were accounted for, but once there, he took some satisfaction that all was well. Today was no exception and since the flock looked to be in good shape, he decided he would work more on his sheep pens. But first, he would take a little drive into the valley.

Bonnie Doone! he called. Let’s go see Sal!

As he drove off with Doone happily ensconced in the back, he kept his window down. He loved the drive to Salvatore’s. The old logging trail was a rough and bumpy ride that paralleled the Flat River. Both wound through some of the most spectacular country in Idaho. The nearly13,000-foot granite peaks rose high above the broad valley, where low-lying clouds created a dream-like environment over the water.

He felt at peace here but knew it was short-lived. He stuck his head out the window and breathed in the sharp, clean air. He wished that the air would freeze his brain. Especially the memories that hovered in his mind like ghosts in a graveyard.

CHAPTER 2

April

Near Fulton, Idaho

Lindsey McCormick climbed out of her truck and stretched her limbs. She had been driving for four days, pulling a fifth-wheel rig, and now her destination finally lay before her.

As she stood on the bluff and looked down, she wasn’t conscious of the Idaho plains and the towering buttes rising behind them. All she saw was the lush green valley of the Menderes.

She had worked for the U.S. Department of Agriculture then, and sheep had been her specialty. Part of her job involved traveling around the U.S. and overseas, sharing her knowledge of twenty-first century livestock practices. But the real experts were the shepherds themselves. In Turkey, Yugoslavia, Israel, and Syria, they had been tending sheep for thousands of years. She always returned home with more knowledge than when she had left.

Lindsey pulled a granola bar from her pocket now, tore off the top of the wrapper and took a good-sized bite. Climbing onto the hood of her truck, she gazed absently at the town below her as she ate.

When in Turkey, she had met Emir, the soft-spoken young doctor with the stunning eyes. In just three weeks, they had fallen in love and often talked about his continuing his education in the States. But six months later when she left, he stayed behind.

Emir had been born and educated in Turkey. It was where he had become a doctor. It was where his father, Abdullah, wanted his only son to remain, and it was Abdullah she had come to interview.

It had taken a while to win Abdullah over. A woman professing to have significant knowledge regarding sheep was nearly blasphemy to the man. But she had come to be taught and not teach. And while she took note of all his wisdom and experience, she knew that he admired her deftness and skill with his flock. He did not, however, admire his son’s attraction to this American woman.

Abdullah owned several businesses, but his main wealth came from the Menderes River valley, where he owned much land and many sheep. He also had a reputation for raising outstanding Anatolian livestock guardian dogs. Before she left, he had made sure his son stayed behind and had given her a dog instead.

This is one of my best, he had promised of the large pup. This one will have the magic.

Taking a deep breath, Lindsey slid off the hood of the truck and walked back to her fifth-wheel. She unlocked the door and looked in at the four crates of dogs. We’re almost there guys, and then you’ll get your chow.

Tails thumped at the sound of her voice, particularly at the word chow. Assured that they were all okay, she locked the door again and climbed into the cab of the truck. She stared through the windshield a few minutes at the thin layer of snow still clinging to the April grass.

Although it had been several years ago, she remembered well returning to America with her crumpled life and the four-month-old Anatolian Shepherd dog that she didn’t want. The pup weighed fifty pounds, and smuggling him into her small Pennsylvania flat was like hiding a moose in her closet.

As the days passed, the pup had tried to rouse her from her despair and her bed. He littered the bedroom with squeaky toys and tennis balls in an effort to get her to play and licked her arm or leg whenever they dangled off the mattress. Finally, he pulled his plump puppy body up onto the bed and simply lay next to her. Together they watched the rain slide down her apartment window. Together they stared at the walls and wished for a different life.

Late afternoon found Wes knocking back a beer with Salvatore inside his shelter. The shelter where the old man lived was nothing more than a shack slapped together with boards and tar paper. There were no luxuries inside, only the barest of essentials, crudely made.

The table where the two men sat was uneven. Every time Wes moved, his beer spilt. What the hell, Sal, how do you ever eat a meal?

Use your knee.

Wes looked down and saw how the old fellow balanced the shaky contraption with just the top of his leg. Wes also noticed that he was the only one with beer spilt all over his jeans.

Salvatore pointed a finger at Wes’s pants. It’s thirstier than you, amigo. He followed this with a toothy smile.

The old man was like Yoda, Wes thought. He didn’t know a lot of English, and on the outside, he seemed simple and common. But inside his head was more knowledge of the land and sheep, of life in general, than an entire library.

Wes chugged more beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked under the table where his dog lay next to his feet. Doone did better today. She still comes on like a high wind, but she’s learning.

Sal nodded. De wind blows where it wants, but it has much strength. Remember to teach Doone, not control her.

Getting up, Wes went to the window. From where he stood he could see Sal’s two Border Collies lying on the hill and watching his sheep. They were Doone’s parents. And even though Doone had been the smallest in the litter, Sal had insisted she was the one for him.

Wes had been to several sheep trials, but even the best of the lot could not compare to Sal’s dogs. When Sal worked his dogs, something powerful happened.

The old man was slight in stature and walked with a cane. His voice was quiet. Yet the dogs were aware of his every word and knew his every gesture. When they came together, herding became a beautiful dance. Light and nimble, the dogs’ feet barely touched the ground as they gently drew the sheep together in a great wave. Then, with just the raising of one hand, Sal called them in, and the graceful ballet turned serious. Darting back and forth behind the flock, the dogs’ frenetic insistence pushed the herd on, the way the wind drives the winter snow.

I’ll never be as good as you, Wes said.

Sal was quiet a moment and then tipped his can up to finish his beer. What you think is not important. What Doone thinks is what matters. If she trusts you, she works from the heart.

I don’t trust me, Wes said.

Doone will teach you.

Wes leaned back against the wall and flashed a lazy smile. Why is it that every time I come here feeling shitty, I leave feeling good?

The old man stood and stretched. Be glad it isn’t the other way around, amigo.

From the window, the breeze smelled of spring. The two men faced each other.

Sal asked, The new pup, is he coming one of these days?

Yeah. The bloke is bringing him from out East any day now.

He will grow big and protect your sheeps?

One can hope.

Sal nodded. You have something more to do than sit here and drink beer with me?

I like sitting here and drinking stubbies with you, Sal. It’s comfortable. But I suppose I should be getting about. I have to pick up some feed in town.

We’ll see you later, then?

Yeah, you’ll see me later. Wes shoved his hat back on and walked outside with Bonnie Doone trotting ahead of him.

Lindsey checked the GPS and saw the exit for Fulton, Idaho, was only a few miles ahead. Pulling a bottle of tea from her small cooler, she twisted off the cap and drank.

She didn’t know what had finally prompted her to get up out of her bed that day four years ago. More than likely, she needed to pay her bills. Then again, it might have been the sight of the poor dog, who after destroying most of her apartment, lay in a heap at the end of her bed in desperate need of exercise. So on a Tuesday morning she had packed up, left the city, and drove to her sister’s farm in Indiana.

Take the dog, please, she told Holly. He needs space. He needs something to do besides stare out the window and eat my sofa.

But in the end, they had both stayed due to Holly’s insistence.

As each week eased into the next, the dog she had named Akiro began to show what he was bred for. At eighteen months old, he was nearly one-hundred-fifty pounds.

Yet Akiro was in control, making decisions, using his power sparingly, as his breed had done for six thousand years. He spent most of his day lying with her sister’s goats – fierce in his protection of the tiniest kid – yet gentle enough to let new chicks huddle between his huge paws. He made her smile again, and each passing day drew her closer to the dog. But it was clear Akiro was not a house dog. He would never sleep in her bed again. His job was with livestock.

Every evening he came to the edge of the pasture for his supper. He ate slowly while Lindsey sat in the grass beside him. His tail wagged as he ate, letting Lindsey know he had not forgotten her. Then raising his large head, he went to her for a good ear scratch before going back to his charges.

They stayed on the farm until the day Holly showed her the newspaper article. It was about a breed of dog just like Akiro. Anatolian Shepherds were helping to save the cheetahs in Africa. Farmers had been persuaded to use the large livestock guardian dogs instead of traps and poison. The cheetahs were making a comeback, the farmers were happy, and the cheetah organization was looking for more dogs.

Lindsey made the call. A week later they were on a plane to Namibia. Once in Africa, Akiro had learned to protect whatever charge was given to him. They had moved from village to village, where Akiro and others of his breed would guard every cow, every goat and sheep put in their care. As their reputation grew, African farmers were using more of the Anatolian Shepherd dogs, and the cheetah organization was more than happy to oblige them.

Two years later, she had returned to the States and started her own livestock guardian business with the help of a dog breeder named Mark Cannon. With Akiro and a promising female named Seden and their offspring Hadar, the four had ventured West, showing ranchers the benefit of using livestock dogs.

Lindsey looked down again at the small Idaho town below. The ranch she would be working for was rather remote, thirty thousand acres, and the owners were Australian. There were cattle and sheep. And this time there could be grizzlies and wolves along with a cougar. It could be quite a test for her guard dogs.

She had a strange feeling about the place. She didn’t know if it was good or bad, but she felt that something was going to happen at the Flat River Ranch. She tried to shake off the odd thought by concentrating on the beauty of the Idaho landscape. It would be amazing come summer.

She climbed back out of the truck and looked again through the windows at the dogs crated inside. She could just make out Akiro’s head and he returned her look. She felt better then, comforted by the dog’s eyes that held the wisdom of an old Turk. And she thought of Emir’s father and how far she had come in the last four years.

You were right, Abdullah, she whispered. Akiro had the magic after all.

Wes drove up to the Fulton City Feed Coop and cursed. A one-ton truck pulling a huge fifth-wheel rig was parked horizontally and totally blocking the feed loading dock. Some tourist’s piggy-rig, he thought. The thing looked like a house on wheels. And they call that camping.

The plates on the rig were from out East. Wes got out and shook his head. Some damn tourists had just blown into town and decided they owned the place.

An overhead bell jangled as he pushed inside the feed store. People looked up but no one paid him much attention. Tough times had hit Idaho ranchers. A large percentage of lamb and wool was being imported from Australia and New Zealand, putting American sheep ranchers out of business. Consequently, he was not one of the town’s favorite sons, even though his operation was American.

No one had ever said anything to his face. His and Curt’s grandfather, Bill, had been too well respected in the area for anyone to directly insult him. Bill had married an American nurse after World War II. Three years later, her father died, leaving her the ranch in Idaho. Since it was more than Bill had going in Australia, they made the big move. Over the years, Old Billy had acquired over thirty-five thousand acres of good grassland where he ran five hundred head of cattle. Drought and market prices often dictated changes in the numbers, yet Bill and his American wife, Carol, could always be counted on to lend a hand in the community.

Wes stood in the doorway and said in a moderate voice, I need to use the loading dock and someone is blocking the way.

A few people glanced up and then forgot about him as they resumed shopping. Wes became more irritated by the minute. He was picking up a large amount of horse grain and needed the dock to load it. But no one moved and nothing happened.

He folded his arms over his chest and shouted, Will the person with the fifth-wheel rig, who’s a stubbie short of a six pack, please move the bloody thing from the loading dock!

A large dog food bag with legs nearly knocked him down.

Whoa, whoa, whoa! He grabbed the dog food before the person behind it toppled over. On the other side of the bag was a small, freckle-faced woman. Thank you, she said, then straightened her hat and reached for the large sack.

You were about five feet from falling flat on your arse, Wes told her, still gripping the large bag of dog chow.

Right. They’re a bit heavy.

Wes looked around. Where’s your mister?

There is no ‘mister,’ but thanks, I can take it from here. She wrestled the fifty-pound sack away from him and struggled toward the door.

He got there just in time to open it. Damn it, woman, slow down! He followed her outside and whisked the bag from her arms once again. Why the blasted hurry?

She stopped and looked at him. Because I’m the ‘stubbie’ short of a six pack.

Wes set the bag down and nudged up the brim of his hat. The woman was diminutive in size, and it threw some water on his impatience. "There is a sign that states plainly not to park by the loading dock."

I realize that, but the store parking lot doesn’t have adequate space for what I’m driving.

He looked again at the huge fifth-wheel. I won’t argue that. Then he turned back to her. Why does someone your size need such a monster rig? I’m surprised that your feet even reach the truck pedals.

Oh, it gets worse, she assured him. If you’ll excuse my frankness, your accent tells me that you’re from the Flat River Ranch?

I am . . . . He picked up the bag again and waited for a further explanation.

She put out her hand. I’m Lindsey McCormick.

He couldn’t shake her hand as he was still holding the fifty-pound bag of dog food, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t have anyway. Suspicious now, he regarded her with intense green eyes that she guessed were his best weapon and said, Is that supposed to mean something to me?

I’m looking for Wes Cogan. He hired me to help with his sheep production, and I have the pup he bought.

He frowned. That would be me. But where is this Cannon bloke? Sleeping in the back? He made his way toward her rig when a large dog inside the cab of the truck slammed against the window with a bark that was akin to a roar.

Wes jumped back. Holy shit!

That’s Bandu. He’s my companion dog. He’ll settle when I tell him you’re okay.

But Wes continued to stare at the large mastiff-type dog, whose head took up nearly the whole truck window. These are the dogs Cannon sells to protect sheep?

No, Lindsey hurried to assure. Bandu is a Boerboel. I got him as a pup while I was in Africa. She put her hand up, and the dog stopped barking.

Wes was still holding the dog food bag, and she moved to the door of her truck. You can set the bag back here.

But his eyes stayed on the dog who watched his every move. Are you daft? If I open that door, the dog will be on me in a second.

Lindsey rolled her eyes, took the bag from him, and opening the truck door, said quite firmly, Back! The dog did as told, and she pushed and shoved the large bag into the truck, slammed the door, and turned to Wes.

Look, I’ve been driving for four days, and I’m hungry and tired. I’ll move my rig and you can load up your feed, and then I’ll follow you back to the ranch.

But Wes didn’t move. Where’s Cannon?

Mark? He’s in Pennsylvania.

When is he coming out?

Lindsey sighed inwardly. Here we go, she thought. Mark isn’t coming. He breeds the livestock dogs and handles the business part of our operation. I do the field work.

Wes was shaking his head as she began her usual spiel. I may not be what you expected, but I can assure you I have the experience to get the job done.

He moved toward her slowly and deliberately, and for the first time she took note of him. He was tall and rangy and carried a slight sense of danger. His hair was dark. He wore it longer, and it fell in wavy disarray over his forehead. She thought that his eyes were the most outstanding feature on his face. A blue-green that drew you to him or made you step back.

Let’s be straight about this, he said. Flat River is a thirty-thousand-acre ranch with grizzlies and wolves in the mountains and now a cougar. This country is not for fools. When I talked to Cannon, I thought he was the bloke that would be coming out. And at the risk of sounding sexist, this really is a man’s job. I’ll bet last month’s profits that you barely make five-foot-two, and I don’t want to be responsible for what happens to you.

I have excellent references that prove . . . .

He put up his hand. You could barely carry a bag of dog food. Just move your rig so I can load up my feed. He started to walk away and then turned. You’re welcome to have dinner with us and spend the night. But after that, I’ll take my dog and send you on your way. He moved off, got into his pickup, and watched impatiently while she got into hers and slowly backed her rig up.

The second she was out of the way, he shifted gears and backed to the loading dock. Then leaning his forearms on his window sill, he looked at her and pointed to the sign:

No Parking

Loading Zone

I get it, she muttered and watched as he climbed out of his truck and jumped up onto the dock.

As he went for his second sack of feed, he was surprised to see her beside him, grabbing up a bag. He glanced her way. Even if you manage to lift that, you’re not changing my mind.

Not bothering to pick up the bag, she just slid it across the dock and pushed it into his truck bed. I’m earning my dinner.

They moved the feed sacks in silence for a while when she finally said, "I’ve worked with a few lions in Africa. I’ll bet my last paycheck that they’re bigger than your cougar."

He walked over to her. Right. Inside a Land Rover on some preserve.

She wrinkled her nose at the smell of beer on his clothes. Nope. They were probably as wild as you on a Saturday night.

He leaned slightly closer. And just how would you handle something that wild?

She looked up at him. I’m pretty good with a whip and a chair.

He couldn’t help but smile at that, and she added, You originally signed up for three months. But I’ll help you get a good start with your dog, plus offer any help you might need with your sheep production – for two weeks. And if after that time, you’re not happy with my services, I’ll leave and you owe me nothing.

I could be a real taskmaster . . . .

She moved off to get one of the last bags of feed. I’m counting on it.

He had to admit the woman did have a lot of pluck, and though he might live to regret it, he said, Deal.

She turned to face him. Deal it is then.

CHAPTER 3

Lindsey drove under the wooden beams that boasted the name Flat River Ranch. She had lost sight of Wes a mile back, and only a small weathered sign had pointed her in the right direction. Now, twenty-three miles of dirt road later, she came around a bend and was astounded by the view. Mountains that had been looming on the horizon since she had left town appeared abruptly in front of her. Scraping the sky, they spread as far as she could see. Up ahead the ranch buildings were dwarfed by the towering buttes and looked like dollhouse accessories.

She was still a couple miles from the house, and as she drove on, she opened her window. There were Western Hemlocks in the distance, and the scent of fresh cedar came to her on the breeze. Fields, still flecked with snow, were dotted with Angus cattle, and she felt herself relax. This was her job, the job she loved, a bucolic lifestyle that offered tranquility and familiarity. She opened the window wider now and inhaled the familiar fragrances of livestock and hay that never failed to ground her.

A few minutes later, she was on the long driveway that finally led up to the ranch. On the right was the house. Made of cedar logs, the two-story home was wrapped in a beautiful wide veranda. Three gabled windows accented the second level, and on one side of the house was a rock chimney that rose from the ground to the roof.

Down from the house, on the left, was a large barn. Its boards were weathered-gray, but the building looked to be in good shape. A newly-painted corral circled behind it. Down from the corral, behind a cluster of aspens, was a log-cabin bunkhouse, and opposite that was a newer mobile home. And behind everything was the Range. The grasslands went on for miles, finally coming to a stop at the foothills of the mountains.

She pulled her rig up near the house, and before she could even get out, a tall, lean man in his mid-forties came out onto the veranda. He wore a Stetson, a mustache, and a puzzled smile.

Lindsey called out, Hello!

He came down the steps to join her. G’day.

She walked toward him and put out her hand. Lindsey McCormick.

Curt Cogan, he said as he shook it. He stood there waiting for her to continue.

I’ve brought Wes his dog. I’m going to be working for him.

Curt merely nodded, then said, I think he’s in the barn unloading some feed.

Okay, where would you like me to park?

You can pull into that field across from the house.

Thanks. She had started back to her truck when Curt called out, Here’s Wes now.

Lindsey turned and watched Wes come out of the barn and walk toward them. His short-brimmed hat was pulled theatrically low over his brow, but she could still see his eyes studying her.

He looked to be maybe in his late thirties with an upper lip that suggested bitter determination. And she’d bet her Chevy truck that he had been the typical bad boy in his youth, sitting in the back of a small café, lighting up a smoke, and giving the waitress a killer look that made her forget how to breathe.

She nodded at him now and continued walking back to her rig.

From the veranda, the two men watched her. Finally Curt moved toward the door, but before going inside he turned to Wes and said, A woman? What the hell is this about?

I hear ya, mate. But for the time being I don’t have a choice.

Coming into her rig, Lindsey was greeted by loud thumping tails. The dogs knew it was time for a stretch and some food. As was the usual procedure, Akiro was first. Lindsey unlatched the door of his crate, and the big dog jumped out. Immediately he was leashed, led outside to pee, and then was connected to a steel ring welded to the frame of the RV. Lindsey fed him, and while he was eating, she got out the female, Seden, and the process began again.

It was when she was finished with her fourth dog, Bandu, and had him properly tethered that Wes approached from where he had been observing the whole process. Immediately the dogs began barking.

He kept his distance as Lindsey said in a calm, soothing voice, It’s okay. We like him.

Wes raised a brow. I doubt they believe you.

Lindsey moved toward them and pointed a finger. Down. The four dogs reluctantly did as told. She turned back to Wes. I know they look intimidating, but they’re working Anatolians and are only doing what they were bred to do, which is to protect. But we’ll fix this by your putting on my gloves.

He looked at the four big dogs. That’s it? But he stepped forward.

Put these on. She took off her gloves and handed them to him.

Wes did as told and watched as Lindsey plopped herself down on the ground in the middle of the dogs. If he thought the act peculiar, he didn’t say so.

Now that you have my scent, let’s get you introduced. Come and sit in front of me. She had done this routine many times and felt herself slip into the safety of her working mode.

She turned to the big male Anatolian. This is Akiro. She kept her eyes on the big dog as she said to Wes, Put your hand out and let him sniff it.

Wes slowly offered his gloved hand, and after the dog sniffed both sides, Akiro became disinterested. The process was repeated down the line with Seden, Hadar and Bandu.

With the introductions over, Lindsey said, Now get up slowly, but only after I do.

When they were both standing, Wes looked at the lot of them. The male was at least thirty-three inches tall and close to one hundred fifty pounds. He had a large head, and his coloring was a sandy fawn. Next to him stood the female, a smaller version of the male, but with a milk-white coat. Next in line was a young male. He stood about thirty inches tall and looked to weigh around one hundred twenty pounds. He had a pinto face with splotches of fawn here and there on the rest of his body.

The last one was the mastiff. Built like a Mack truck, he stood about twenty-eight inches tall and was all muscle with a stub tail. None of them looked remotely related.

I’ve only seen pictures of Anatolian Shepherds in the article that Cannon wrote, Wes said now. I have to admit that in person they’re incredible. He pointed to Bandu. But what’s that one? The one that doesn’t like me.

Bandu is a South African mastiff. Few farms in Africa are without one. He’s my companion dog.

Wes nodded. He’s your mate, then.

Lindsey pulled her hat off and shook out the dirt. That he is.

But Wes was staring at her shock of bright red hair. You look like you’re in grammar school, freckles and all. How old are you?

Older than you would think. I assume you want to see your pup? she asked, ignoring his outburst.

I’ve been waiting.

Going into her rig for a moment, Lindsey returned carrying a very large puppy. He was draped over her shoulder; his huge paws, like lions’ feet, dominated his body, and she struggled to carry him.

I’ll be stuffed! Wes exclaimed. A smile lit his face and softened his features. He went straight to Lindsey and spoke softly to the dog without touching him. I assume the pup and I have to be properly introduced as well?

That’s right. Let’s just sit with him. She got down on the ground again, and the pup immediately pressed against her. He’ll be understandably shy at first.

That’s okay; he’s just a little bub. Well, sort of. Wes sat across from her and was still smiling. God, he’s great . . .just beautiful. That black mask against the fawn face . . . . Wes brought his hand out slowly and let it lay near the pup’s nose. He looks heavy. What does he weigh?

He’s twelve weeks old and weighs forty-five pounds.

Fantastic.

So was the change in Wes Cogan. The intensity that seemed to dominate his personality had vanished. He was actually quite good looking when he wasn’t frowning, she thought. He had definitely matured from that bad boy of his youth, and she could tell he was no fool. Regardless, he was still edgy, rugged, and his stare remained powerful, but the way his hair fell over his forehead hinted at vulnerability.

The pup pulled away from Lindsey to sniff at his hand, and Wes grinned. I think we’re going to be mates sooner than you think . . . .

You bet, Lindsey assured. "You play with him for a day and give him treats and he’ll bond with you in twenty-four hours.